


Catbread in Wonderland

by der_tanzer



Series: Catbread [20]
Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ted Quinlan woke alone in his small apartment, precisely one minute before the alarm went off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catbread in Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> All negative opinions and statements are the property of bitter!Quinlan and in no way reflect the actual feelings or views of this author. So if you don't like what he says about your boys, there's nothing I can do.  
> Warning for violence and death, but still not really a deathfic. Seriously.  
> 

Ted Quinlan woke alone in his small apartment, precisely one minute before the alarm went off. After all these years of rising at the same time, the alarm was a mere formality. He turned it off before it could start that ungodly beeping, and rolled out of bed.

Everything around him looked dark and dingy, and he wondered why he was only noticing it now. It was clean, though. Quinlan insisted on being clean, if nothing else. He pulled his bathrobe on over his boxers and went through the living room to the kitchen to start the coffee before he took his shower. He looked at the ceramic cats, thought about dusting them over the weekend, and wondered why he bothered. Goddamned Lorna and her fake fucking cats. But some of them were kind of cute. He especially liked the geeky little brown tabby in the lab coat. He wondered, not for the first time, what people would think when he died and someone had to come clean this place out. He guessed there would be plenty of talk, but he wouldn't be around to hear it. Until then, he would just continue to not let anyone in.

The place he'd lived before had been better. The cozy little house he'd shared with Lorna, in a nice neighborhood. He'd kept it after she moved out, comfortable with the memories and the shelves of ceramic cats. But after the Ricky Brazil deal, after he'd been kidnapped from his own front porch by men his own partner was in league with, he didn't want to stay. The apartment was cheaper and sleazier than what he could afford, but it felt safer. And maybe, deep down inside, in a part of his heart where he never went anymore, he felt like he deserved it. That maybe a guy like him, who had no friends and whose co-workers actually wanted him dead, was supposed to live in a place like this. He hated it, but he had absolutely no intention of ever moving.

He showered and shaved, dressed in jeans and his favorite polo shirt; green with narrow purple stripes and the tiny Ralph Lauren horse and rider on the pocket. He didn't care much about fashion, but he did care about quality, and he'd been wearing that same shirt for three years. If he could manage not to get shot and ruin it, it'd last another three at least. Tiny horse or no tiny horse, Ralph made a good shirt.

Cooking breakfast was the hardest part of his day. He never could get the bacon, eggs and toast to time out together. And today he was further confused by a vague, nagging idea that someone else should be doing this. Someone who was more organized and in general a better cook. But he didn't know who that might be. Lorna could burn instant coffee in the microwave, and there had never been anyone else. He'd never brought a date to his home, or had an offer of breakfast from anyone he'd spent the night with.

But the nagging idea remained. Maybe it was a mother flashback. The eggs were cold by the time the bacon was done and he ate them while he waited for the toast. Maybe tomorrow he'd get it right. Like Scarlett O'Hara said, tomorrow was another day.

And why in hell was he thinking of Scarlett O'Hara, anyway?

***

There was a ton of paperwork on his desk and Quinlan was buried under it all morning. He was desperate for a break at lunch time, and that was right when _they_ came in. Those three rejects from the Veg-O-Matic who lived down at the pier. God. Just what he fucking needed. The two volleyball players with their tight shorts and swaggers were bad enough, but it was the skinny geek who really bothered him. There was something about those thick glasses and the way he moved _inside_ his clothes, as if he wasn't wearing them so much as hiding behind them. Quinlan felt a nagging urge to strip him and find out how much geek there really was in there. Whenever he got the chance to arrest Murray, he always took a little extra time patting him down in an effort to find out.

At least he understood now why he didn't like them. It was hard to admit, but the truth had eventually become clear. Nick and Cody had everything that Quinlan never had and never would. They had each other. They were in love, they got to live together and take care of each other, and they rubbed his nose in it every damn day. And they had Murray. They had that sweet little geek following them around like a puppy, and they didn't even want him. What was he to them? A friend? A co-worker? He wasn't a lover, that was for sure. He plainly wanted to be, but it wasn't going to happen. Quinlan was no expert on relationships, but he knew that they weren't going to give the kid what he needed. Murray was the giver on that boat.

And Quinlan couldn't quite forgive that, either. How could he respect the guy for following them like a puppy when anyone could see he wasn't wanted? That was probably the only thing he really didn't like about Bozinsky. If the kid would just open his eyes and look around, stop dreaming about those tanned gods who only used him to solve their cases and pay their rent, he might notice that there were others who really appreciated him. If he just woke up one time, he might realize that he didn't have to sleep alone.

His thoughts were interrupted when Allen started talking, laying out their case. He didn't get too far before he called on Murray to explain how he'd gathered the evidence with his computer. Murray explained it with growing enthusiasm, but Quinlan couldn't listen to that pleading voice, needing him to believe, needing his validation. He knew the kid was right, he was always right, but his neediness and the smug arrogance of the other two irritated him beyond all toleration. It was easier just to throw them out and let them solve their own problems. If it got too out of hand, they would come back and he'd listen to them then.

The only flaw in that plan was the look of hurt betrayal that Murray threw over his shoulder as they left. As if he had for some reason expected more. That nagging almost-memory returned, more forcefully than before, making the lieutenant feel as if he was supposed to do something. He almost called after them, after _him_, and bit his tongue to keep it back. He stayed at his desk until he was sure they were out of the building and then headed over to the _Polynesian Paradise_ for lunch, where he ate too little, drank too much, and wondered why he was still thinking about Murray Bozinsky while he watched the strippers dance.

***

On the way back to the police station, a drive he was only just sober enough to make, and even then maybe not by legal standards, he got a call to respond to a shooting at the pier. That wasn't too unexpected. Ever since those brain-dead beach bums moved in, the pier seemed to get shot up every other week. But that almost-memory was back, itching like a mosquito bite in the back of his mind. There was something he was supposed to do or say, or maybe just _know_, and he didn't. There was something wrong, though, and it went way beyond someone shooting up Allen's boat. He was sure of that, if nothing else.

Quinlan dug a mint out of the glove box and turned toward the pier. When he heard the dispatcher ask for an ambulance to respond to the same scene, he put the bubble light on the dash and walked the old Chevy up to forty-five, well over the downtown speed limit. For just a second it occurred to him that this wasn't his car, but that was foolish. Of course it was. It had all his things in it. He had the keys. But it still felt wrong. He pushed those thoughts away, determined to take care of business.

"I'm not crazy," he muttered to himself. "I'm not fucking crazy. This is my car, this is my job, this is my life." He didn't realize he was speaking aloud, but he repeated those words like a mantra all the way down to the dock. _ This is my car, this is my job, this is my life._

Quinlan parked his car and ran down the gangway of slip seven, following the crowd. It was always a safe bet, when looking for an incident, to find it in the center of a crowd. He didn't see any of the three detectives and wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. It never crossed his mind that they wouldn't be involved. If it happened down here, they were in on it. And if they weren't hurt, they'd be helping whoever was, even if they'd done the shooting themselves.

The crowd parted before his badge and he saw three bodies on the boards. Two were strangers and both looked dead. The third was Bozinsky. Allen was holding the kid's head in his lap while Ryder put pressure on what looked like a nasty belly wound.

"Jesus," he growled, kneeling between them. "What the hell happened?"

"Where's the ambulance?" Nick asked in response.

"It's coming. Let me see we've got." He lifted the rag that Nick was using to cover the wound and swore softly. "Two entrances? You let him get hit twice? Is there an exit?"

"No. Goddamn hollow points." Nick was sobbing now, and Cody ignored them both while stroking Murray's white face and telling him that he was going to be all right. But there was so much blood, and they all knew what kind of havoc hollow point rounds caused inside the human body.

"All right, you keep pressure on that. And you," he shouted, pointing at one of the random onlookers, "bring that box over there. Come on, am I talking to a dummy?" The stranger grabbed the crate he indicated and brought it closer, then just stood there, not knowing what to do.

"Put it under his feet. Come on, get his legs up. Don't you know—never mind, I'll do it." He scrambled gracelessly around Nick on his hands and knees, pulled Murray's splayed legs together and lifted them under one arm. "Get the box under. What the hell's wrong with you?" The itchy little memory was digging at his brain like a trapped rat and touching Murray made it actually painful. He couldn't help yelling; it was all he could do not to scratch his head, or maybe pull out his hair.

"Where the hell is that ambulance?" Nick shouted desperately.

"It's coming." That was all he knew about it and all he could say. Then he turned to the man who had brought the box. "You, sit down here and hold his feet. Make sure they stay up on the box. It might buy him a couple minutes."

He stood and walked around Murray's other side, kneeling down across from Nick. The memory wasn't solved, he still didn't understand, but his heart was leading his brain now and it knew things he didn't. He put one hand on Murray's stomach, covering one of the wounds for Nick, and touched Murray's face tenderly with the other. The soft eyes opened and looked blurrily upon him, confused and out of focus.

"You're gonna be all right, kid. I'm gonna take care of you, I promise."

"Loo—Lieutenant? What are you—why…?" He closed his eyes and drew a short, painful breath.

"Don't try to talk, Murray. Just hold on. Help's coming, baby. You just keep breathing."

Nick looked up at him in surprise, then glanced at Cody. But Cody didn't appear to have heard. He was staring into Murray's face, brushing back his hair with one hand, so intently focused his own life might have depended on it.

Then the ambulance was there and things started to happen fast. Nick and Cody were led away, both of them yelling and fighting, to answer questions for Captain Lang. Quinlan stayed close to Murray, feeling the pull that he still didn't understand, and rode with him to the hospital. That felt familiar too, and he tried to remember another time that the kid had been hurt. He couldn't come up with one, but as he sat there and talked to him, the words, which sounded so strange to his own ears, felt more and more right. He had never talked to Murray like that; had never said those words in sincerity to anyone. But he said them now—called him baby and sweetheart and promised to take care of him forever if he would just pull through—and what's more, he meant it. A year and a half of looking with barely disguised lust at this sweet, sexy, skinny little nerd was going to be wasted or rewarded today.

***

He was pacing in the waiting room when Nick and Cody finally got there. Both were frightened and angry, covered in blood, and when Cody grabbed Quinlan's arm, the lieutenant didn't shake him off.

"They took him to surgery, that's all I know," he said, more gently than they'd expected.

"But the doctor must have said something," Cody pleaded. "He's going to be all right, isn't he?"

"I don't know. The nurse I talked to said—well—she said it wasn't too good."

Cody sagged and suddenly Quinlan was holding him up. Nick grabbed him around the waist and eased him into a chair, leaving Quinlan standing alone.

"Is that all she said?" Nick demanded. "Not too good?"

"That's the gist of it. She said massive internal injuries, blood loss…"

"He's not going to make it, is he?" Cody asked, stricken.

"Maybe not. But he's no quitter, Allen. You don't give up and he won't, either."

"Did they say how long it would be before we know anything?"

"No. I think they're just trying to stabilize him enough to fly to LA. If they do that, I can get a police chopper to take us along."

"Us?" Nick repeated, confused. "Why would you go—"

Cody cut him off with an even better question. "Why would you do that for us? What's going on here, Lieutenant?"

"I don't know," he confessed, sinking into a chair beside them. "This has been a real fucked up day."

"No shit," Nick said. "You know, if you'd just listened to Murray this morning when he was telling you about the case, none of this would have happened."

"What?"

"The case we were working on. This guy took his kid away from his ex-wife. She hired us to get him back. All you had to do was arrest the father and his accomplices, and everything would have been fine. But you wouldn't listen. We had to arrange a meeting ourselves, and they got the drop on us."

"Now wait a minute. He didn't say anything about any kidnapping."

"No, I think he used the words _non-custodial-parent interference_, but anyone with half a brain knows what that means. Just like any cop with half a brain would have been out there doing his job instead of making us do it for him."

Quinlan froze, stung by the truth as much as the angry tone, and Cody began trying to quiet Nick down. Nick tried to push him away, but Cody was too strong. They held onto each other in the end and Quinlan sat beside them, feeling a thousand miles away. His chest hurt, his brain itched, but it was all coming clear. This wasn't supposed to have happened. He was seeing flashes in his mind of another world, another reality, where Murray had never been shot. Something had happened to him there, maybe he'd been beaten up or stabbed, and Quinlan had gone with him to the hospital, but he wasn't shot and it had ended better than this was going to.

"I loved him then," he whispered and the two men looked up again.

"Did you say something?" Cody asked, seeing that Nick was still too angry.

"This didn't happen. Don't you see? This never happened. I love him and he loves me and I'm not supposed to still be living in that shitty apartment. I'm supposed to be with him so things like this don't happen."

"With who? Murray?" Nick scoffed, unsure whether to get angry or laugh. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about _Murray_. About us. Him and me. We're supposed to be together and this never happened. He never got shot, Allen. You did. That's why this is wrong."

"I did what? I never got shot, Ted. I haven't been shot since 'Nam, and that wasn't serious."

"Yes, you were. I don't remember it exactly, but it was you, not him. He didn't tell me about the kidnapping, and you got shot. I know that much for sure. Jesus, why can't I remember the rest?"

"Because you're making this shit up," Nick said shortly. "You don't even like Murray, everyone knows that. And he'll fall in love with you the day monkeys fly out of my ass."

"But he did," Quinlan said softly, sinking in confusion, undone by their scorn. "He did. I'm sure of it."

"You're looking for a way out of your guilt," Nick snapped. "You think pretending you care will make us feel better, or that pretending he liked you will let you feel forgiven. Sure, he'd forgive you. He'll forgive anyone for anything. You don't have to be special, and believe me, you're not."

"But I am," he whispered, rubbing the fingers of his right hand over his left. He felt the smooth gold ring (was that there this morning?) and pulled it off, searching for the inscription with eyes that didn't want to focus. Finally he found it, squinting to make it out. _Ted &amp; Lorna 1955_. "No, that's not right. That's not…"

The ring dropped from his trembling fingers and rolled under the chair. He started to reach for it and froze when the nurse appeared. The same one who'd spoken to him before. The same one, in fact, who had dragged him bodily from the exam room when he wouldn't let go of Murray's hand.

"Lieutenant Quinlan," she said quietly. "I'm so sorry. Mr. Bozinsky didn't make it."

"What?" he said blankly, dimly hearing Nick and Cody echo it.

"He was just torn up too badly. Those goddamned hollow points, if you'll pardon my language. Is there any family we should call?"

"No. No, I'll take care of it." He glanced at Nick and Cody, as if inviting them to object, but they were both done. Cody was sobbing on Nick's shoulder and Nick was holding him hard, rubbing his back as tears poured down his face.

"I want to—can I see him?"

"He's going down to the morgue now. But I honestly don't think you want to, lieutenant. If he was your friend, remember him the way he was. You'll be better off."

Quinlan sank back in his chair, put his hands over his face and wept like a child, alone in the dark.

_Ted? Lieutenant, what's wrong?_

He yearned toward that voice, knowing it wasn't real but needing it desperately nonetheless.

_Ted, you're scaring me._

I'm scaring you? He forced his eyes open and was surprised to find it was still dark.

"Murray?" he whispered tentatively, feeling like a fool. Murray was dead and he was alone in the dark and that was all there was to it.

"Ted, what's wrong? Were you having a nightmare?"

"Murray?" he said again, testing the word. Tasting it and finding it good. "Is that you?"

"Of course it's me. Who else would it be, Lieutenant?"

"Turn on the light. Let me see your face." There were lamps on both sides of the bed, but he wouldn't reach for his. He was terrified of moving and breaking the spell. If this shifted into another dream, he would go insane. But the light came on and Murray was still there, tousled and worried, peering at him nearsightedly without his glasses.

"Lieutenant," he said very softly, brushing his fingers over the scarred cheek, "are you crying? What on earth is going on?"

"Nothing, kid. I just had a bad dream." He wiped his face hurriedly with one hand and then pulled Murray into his arms. "No, leave the light on. I—I want to look at you."

"Oh. Sure, okay. Must have been some dream," Murray yawned, snuggling against his chest.

"Probably the worst I've ever had. But it's okay. So long as you promise to tell me about the cases you're working."

"If I can," Murray said, barely stifling another yawn.

"No, not if. You tell me, or you don't work another one, and that's final."

"Sure, Lieutenant. Whatever you want."

"That's what I want."

"Okay. What was your dream about?"

"Nothing you need to hear."

"I tell you my dreams," Murray reminded him.

"Because it makes you feel better. I don't think it would help me."

"What would help?" he asked, running his hand tenderly over Quinlan's face again.

"Make breakfast in the morning. The day just doesn't start right when I do it myself."

"Okay. I love you, Lieutenant."

"I know, baby. I love you, too."


End file.
